JohnLock Oneshots
by JakkyLovesScreamer
Summary: Johnlock smut and feels, rated M for sex in later chapters.
1. Why

**Why**

* * *

"John, fetch me my phone."

The blonde sighed, arms crossed, and tartly said, "No."

Sherlock hardly looked up from the body. "John, I can't very well get it myself." He motioned to his arms holding up the cadaver's limb.

"No, because then you'll just have me do whatever it was you were going to do on it." John shifted his weight onto his other leg, exasperated.

"With."

"Excuse me?" He sputtered at Sherlock's not unexpected blunt response.

"With." Sherlock repeated his correction.

John raised a puzzled eyebrow.

"Right pocket."

Sighing, John obeyed, loyal as ever, as he roughly thrust his hand down his pants into the taller man's coat pocket.

"Pants pocket." Still not looking up, his tone was nonchalant, eyes still flaring with excitement towards the corpse, knowing full well that John wouldn't fail as his servant.

Still eying him suspiciously as he usually did, he shoved his hand into another one of Sherlock's pockets. Only then did Sherlock look up, and John was shocked at the look he received. It was a strange expression to see on the consulting detective's face, a homogeneous mixture between interest, scheming, and something else that he couldn't quite place. It seemed to startle himself almost as much as it did John.

"What?" he asked, his voice suddenly horse, groping hand forgotten.

"You-your eyes..." The curly haired man stuttered, then suddenly did something John never thought he would see. He... blushed!? The next moment, it was gone, as if it was never there, and Sherlock shifted his waist away from his partner, somehow depositing the phone in Watson's hand.

"Take a picture of this." He gestured to a blotch of something under the subject's limp, cold arm, but as John aimed the phone's camera, he could tell that the man standing next to him was only partially immersed in his work. Something was up; Sherlock was never like this.

* * *

John closed the flat door behind him as the two stepped into the semi-messy apartment. Almost immediately, Sherlock began to question him.

"So you say you're _not _gay?"

Sighing, he responded with an annoyed undertone, "Yes. And what about my eyes?"

"You're the only one who seems to expect something when you look at me."

John's heart sank and lept at the same time. "You mean-"

"I'm old news." Sherlock kept eye contact, but he didn't seem to be looking at who was in front of him. John didn't know what to say, even more so when Sherlock stepped closer to him; too close.

"I shot for the moon, but instead hit the nearest star." John was startled by this, knowing Sherlock to be direct and not one to speak in riddles.

"What's that supposed to mean?" He was all too aware of Sherlock's breath tapping him on the nose each second that passed, eliminating the doubt that this wasn't a dream.

"It's a metaphor. The moon is the case," Sherlock put an arm around John's waist, not flinching in return as he did, "And you're the star."

"This is too close." John said, a bead of sweat dripping down his chin, hesitating.

"I know it is."

"We're not an item." His voice was almost asking, like he was making sure he had it right, half hoping he was. Against his will, he couldn't deny the fact that his heart was racing frantically.

"Why?" John responded to Sherlock's question with a confused pout. "Why not?" He continued.

Just as he was about to retort in his own defense, he felt the brunette's hardened crotch twitch against his own nether regions. It was then that he realized that he didn't have an answer to that query.

As if reading his mind, Sherlock pulled him closer, so that no part of their fronts weren't touching. John wanted to fight back, to push him away, but he couldn't think of a good reason not to. That was when he realized it; he liked Sherlock. He didn't know why or how, but he provided a sort of danger, a challenge that he hadn't known in the longest time. His intellect, his insight, his disorder, his annoying, sassy retorts, he craved it all. He craved Sherlock Holmes.

So when he went to kiss John, John kissed him back.


	2. Stuck

**Stuck**

* * *

As John sat in the back of his taxi, his mind raced. Damn that Sherlock, making him think he was dead! And damn Mary too, for liking the bloody bastard. He could see it in her eyes, hear it in her voice; she thought he liked the damn fool as well. Why did everyone think that?

John sighed as he realized it; he was lost without the tall, crazy brunette. He internally cursed himself. He had fallen apart when Sherlock had 'died,' and as much as he hated to admit it, Sherlock was right. He treasured the time he had spent living under the same room as that sociopath, craved the experiences they had had together.

He rubbed his temples, glancing over at Mary, gazing out the window with a slight smile spread across her chin. "No," he wanted to tell her, "I love _you,_" but he knew she wouldn't listen. Even he was beginning to see now that he relied on Sherlock.

John was screaming at himself inside. He hated this! Couldn't he be who he wanted, date who he wanted? Why did Sherlock insist on controlling his life? John knew he had let him, and even as much as he wanted this to stop, he couldn't. He softly cussed at himself for caring too much.

Even if he wanted to, he couldn't stop valuing Sherlock. He was trapped in his web and he couldn't escape. John cried quietly to himself, remembering a time before Sherlock, a time when he was half the man he was now, but at least back then, he had his freedom. Without any volition, John figured he may as well be dead.

Damn that Sherlock Holmes. Damn him.


	3. Bittersweet

**Bittersweet**

* * *

AN: Thanks to those who reviewed, I really appreciate it! And yes, I'm uploading this rather quickly, I am going to be updating more frequently, as I have a free block and therefore more time to do as I please. Yay me!

* * *

Stifling a yawn, John crept downstairs and padded softly into the sitting room. He sighed not a moment later, glancing down at Sherlock's serene sleeping body, chest rising and falling breathily. He wondered whether or not he should wake him. Deciding against it, not wanting to disturb his peaceful form, he very carefully slid his laptop off the table next to his flat mate, where it lay lopsided and forgotten.

"John," Sherlock whispered, and he froze, eyes darting towards Sherlock, expecting him to be staring directly at him, but instead was met only with his pale face smiling, eyelashes fluttering, still deep in the world of dreams.

Letting out another sigh of relief, he tiptoed into the kitchen, placing his laptop on the kitchen table and turning to the fridge, looking for something to make for breakfast before he headed out to work. Just as he placed the carton of eggs on the counter, he jumped as he heard Sherlock make a disgruntled noise, somewhere between a gasp and a scream. Puzzled and concerned, he turned his full attention to Sherlock, startled as he started to shake uncontrollably.

"J-John," He mumbled, thrashing his legs, knees hitting the chair's padded arms. "John, no!" he squealed, squirming.

Genuinely worried, John rushed to Sherlock's side, shaking his shoulder gently.

"No! No!" Sherlock was shouting now, John frantic with panic.

"Sherlock!" He cried, grabbing him by the shoulders and shaking vehemently.

His eyes jerked open and he yelled, a bloodcurdling baritone screech the chilled John's blood. Sherlock scrambled to his feet, nearly falling and taking John with him. The blonde steadied him, trying to condole him with some 'easies' and 'you're okays.'

His pupils dominated his eyes, rushing around, trying to see what was going on. Fear flooded his face, forehead creased with an expression of such fury that was so enraged it could kill. His lips quivered, still mouthing John's name. When his eyes finally focused and met with John's equally terrified features, his eyebrows tilted down and he relaxed.

"Oh god, John," he sighed, and wrapped his arms around him, clinging to him for dear life. Thoroughly perturbed, John hugged him back, patting his back awkwardly.

"Are you alright?" John asked slowly, and Sherlock loosened his grip.

"I thought I had lost you." He breathed, and John shivered as his breath tickled the hairs on his neck.

"It was just a dream, Sherlock."

Sherlock shuttered, a groan breaking free from his throat. He pulled back and ran his fingers through his hair, heart still racing.

John watched as the brunette panted, lips open ever so slightly. He was a bit shaken. It wasn't often that the detective broke in front of him. He tried to treasure every emotion he could coax out of him, but this wasn't exactly what he was expecting when it came to Sherlock and emotions.

"Can I ask you what you dreamed about?" He pried tentatively, only half expecting an answer.

Unsurprisingly, he didn't get one.

Not sure of what to do (after all, this _was _Sherlock), he clapped him lightly on the shoulder and went to walk back into the kitchen when Sherlock abruptly grabbed his shoulder and muttered something incoherent. Turning, he shot the pale man a questioning glance.

"Wait." Sherlock said a little louder, just enough for John to hear. He breathed heavily, swallowing with a noticeable gulp.

"What is it?"

Sherlock was surprised by how gentle and caring the blonde's tone was. "I-" he stuttered, words caught in his esophagus. "I dreamed you were dead." He adverted his gaze, afraid he would start crying any moment now. "_Damn it, Sherlock!" _he told himself. _"__It was just a dream! What has gotten into you?"_

He saw John nod out of the corner of his eye, a grim smile of understanding plastered under his nose.

"I'm fine. Everything's fine."

"But I'd be lost without you." Sherlock's eyes widened and his brow crinkled. _"__Where did that come from?"_

John blinked, stupefied. "Sherlock…"

Not knowing what else to do, Sherlock reached out and snatched up his doctor, holding him tight, never wanting to let go. He felt so warm, so right with John close to him, and his heart fluttered as John wrapped his arms around the small of his back. He clutched him tighter, John's feet lifting off the ground a few inches.

"_I love this man," _He thought as he breathed in his hair and squeezed his eyes shut. _"__I love John Watson." _

Pulling away, Sherlock plopped John back onto the ground, slightly flushed. They both simpered, the detective feeling his hands become sweaty and his stomach churn a little. He couldn't help himself. He leaned down and pressed his lips into John's, eyes shut tight, praying for a response.

He got none.

Slowly, he pulled back, refusing to look into the other's gray green eyes.

"Sherlock, look at me."

No, he couldn't. He turned around, not wanting his only friend to see his heart break. Somehow though, he found himself facing his flat mate, John's hands on both his shoulders. Sherlock looked down, and all of a sudden felt a warm pair of lips moving against his own. His heart arose, and he plunged his fingers into John's short, light hair, making him moan ever so softly.

It was John who pulled away fist, gulping for air. On his tiptoes, he pulled Sherlock closer. "I promise," he whispered in his ear, words husky with lust, snaking their way down Sherlock's pants. "That you will _never_ lose me." John withdrew, cradling Sherlock's cheeks between his palms firmly but lovingly. "Got that?"

He nodded, blinking away jubilant tears.

John licked his lips and, clearing his throat, looked away from Sherlock for a moment. "I'll be late for work. I..." Looking over his shoulder, he smirked and shrugged at the abandoned brunette.

Sherlock shook his head, as if waking up from a trance. "Right."

He sunk back into his armchair, half sulking, half smiling to himself. As John scurried around getting ready for work, he chuckled when his eyes laid themselves on the beautiful thing that was Sherlock. Just as he was about to step out the door, he jumped up, startling John.

"Be back soon." Sherlock deadpanned, his lips tight but a longing glossed behind his eyes.

"Right."

"I'll be waiting." He called out to John as he left.

As soon as the door closed, he strode over to the window to watch John as he walked down Baker Street. Rather vainly, Sherlock waved, not expecting him to turn around or much less wave back. But just as he was about to retreat to the sofa, he saw a faraway figure spin on its heel and flick its hand in goodbye.


	4. Left Behind

**Left Behind**

* * *

AN: Sorry if Mycroft is a bit OOC… And yeah, I went a bit overboard… Also, the inspiration for this fic was the song "45" by Shinedown.

* * *

"I assume you've kept tabs on him." Though he sounded nonchalant, voice laced only slightly with pain, he knew Mycroft could sense the urgency in the silent request.

"Of course." Sherlock saw the urge to smirk behind Mycroft's eyes.

"So?" His older brother sniggered at his insistent demand.

Mycroft let out a sigh, exasperated. "You do know you broke him?"

"I had to."

"Keep telling yourself that, Sherlock." Mycroft shook his head disdainfully.

"You agree with me!" Sherlock retorted, tone almost begging.

"Not anymore." Mycroft tilted his head ever so slightly and looked his younger brother in the eye. "He's dead."

He cringed. "What?"

"John's dead, Sherlock."

Sherlock stood perfectly still, his face questioning and hesitant.

"Sherlock, I'm sorry." Was that pity in his brother's voice? Was his bastard older brother showing emotion?

_"__No," _Sherlock thought, _"He's trying to trick me. He can't be serious." _He blinked. "You're lying," He spat.

Mycroft sighed again. "I wish I was." He stepped forward to place what he thought was a comforting hand on his brother's shoulder, letting his love show through just this once. Sherlock cringed and jerked away. Mycroft, hiding his hurt under a solid mask, knew his brother would reject his affections and sat back down, Sherlock still standing.

"He left a note."

"He can't be dead." The brunette's voce threatened to go out.

"He is, Sherlock."

Sherlock still stood, eyes looking betrayed. "He can't be dead." He repeated, whispering a strangled croak of misery.

"You did the same thing to him," Mycroft pointed out, regretting almost immediately what he had said.

Sherlock's brows came together in anger, glaring down at his brother.

"It's true." Mycroft internally cursed himself. _"Damn it, what the bloody hell is wrong with you?"_

His breathing faltered, and he tried fruitlessly to swallow the dry lump in his throat. He was grateful that he didn't have any food in his system to gag up. "The n-note?" Sherlock's eyes fluttered closed unceremoniously as he spoke, his words coming out hoarse and defeated.

Instead of asking "are you sure?" or some other attempts to console his lost sibling, he merely passed him a yellowed sheet of paper, folded in thirds. Gingerly, he took it with shaking hands and read it quietly:

_Sherlock,_

_I only asked for one thing, one little miracle. I asked you not to be dead. I guess that was too much for even the great Sherlock Holmes. I thought you'd never leave my side no matter what, but you left me behind. Since you're not coming back, I'll just have to go to you. Hope to see you soon. ~John._

He stared down at his messy writing scrawled in slightly lopsided lines on the paper. He looked at how the more he wrote, the more unsteady his hand had become. He imagined John, crouched over the kitchen table, vigorously wiping tears off his face with his left palm and he scribbled his last words.

That image alone made him want to cry, let alone what he could only assume John did next. He was a doctor, so he knew the most efficient ways to die. Did he want it to hurt, or did he just want to get it over with? Was it a bullet that killed him, or a noose? Did he go the same was he thought Sherlock had?

He could feel the tears threatening to break loose. But he couldn't cry. Not in front of Mycroft. Actually, to hell with Mycroft. John wouldn't want him to cry. Besides, Sherlock Holmes doesn't cry. He couldn't imagine himself bawling into the shoulder of anyone.

Well, except John.

That left the question: Where was his body? A part of Sherlock was curious, a part of him wanted- no, needed to say goodbye. He needed to see John one last time. But a part of him knew he wouldn't be able to handle it. The part that didn't want to know, that still wanted to believe John was alive.

Footsteps pulled him out of his trance. A man at the door, holding a suit. Classic, black and white, and only the best for Sherlock Holmes.

Only the best. Not anymore.

Nearly choking on his own snot, he snatched the suit out of the man's grasp.

"It's good to be back." He sneered sarcastically, monotone as he shrugged the white shirt over his aching shoulders. The lashes hardly bothered him anymore, not compared to the agony that drowned his heart.

* * *

He hated himself. Despicable, taking everything good in his life for granted. How could he have not told John? Left him all alone like that? Was it really worth it?

_"__No," _he thought, grimacing at himself. _"It wasn't. And it's all your fault."_

* * *

He didn't let himself cry over it. He held a straight face. Nobody saw the hurt in his eyes as he walked home. Past the police, ignoring his brother's intruding phone calls. Past Mrs. Hudson. Through the door, the hallway, into his room.

There, in his nightstand. Top drawer. Black, cold metal, relentless against his matted, sweaty curls.

"You were wrong, my dearest John." Sherlock said aloud, hardly louder than a whisper. "It's me who's been left behind."

He pulled the trigger.


	5. The Heart Wants

**The Heart Wants**

* * *

It all started with his walk. His stride was broken, legs tipsy as he hobbled clumsily into the lab. Tentatively, he sat in a down, wincing as he did so. Molly smirked, watching as he shifted so that his weight was distributed onto his hip.

"Have fun last night?" She couldn't help but snigger.

Sherlock looked at her, making a disgruntled noise. "What?" He sounded flustered.

"Nice shirt, too." She tried her hardest not to let out a chuckle.

"What about my shirt?" He self consciously looked down at his clothes and, rather unlike himself, frantically tried to straighten his top.

"It's two sizes too small. I can see your tummy."

Instantaneously, Sherlock's neck turned bright red and his eyes widened as far as they could. He muttered something incoherently.

"But I like this new hairdo you're sporting. What do you call it? Disheveled detective?"

The scarlet brunette busied himself with tugging his shirt down and his pants up before ascending to flatten his hair.

Enjoying seeing the usually composed man caught off guard, Molly giggled, concealing her jealousy as well as her disappointment in losing ten pounds to Lestrade. Blind hoping failed to make reality hurt any less.

Trying to change the subject as not to reveal her emotions, she let up on teasing Sherlock. "Anyways, what are you here for?"

He mumbled what sounded like "blood sample analysis" before clearing his throat. Molly nodded, going back to work.

* * *

'Bloody hell, you're such a sodding hypocrite' was the one thought that Molly couldn't get out of her head as she stumbled into the morgue the next morning. Hastily trying to smooth out her hair and make sure she didn't have a stray mark of lipstick on her face, she failed to notice Sherlock creep up behind her and snicker.

"Have fun last night?" His tone was incredulously jubilant.

Well shit.

'Shut up, Sherlock' was what she had intended to shoot back at the prick, but instead she let out a sob, accompanied by a "Hardly a good time."

He came up beside her, mouth ready to plant playful revenge, but that thought was vanquished as he saw her tears. The smile vanished.

"Molly?"

No response, just a shut eyes head turn.

"I... Molly..." He stuttered, but eventually gave up on words and grabbed the girl by the shoulders, ceasing her quick pace as he turned her to face him.

"Molly, look at me."

Weepy eyes rested on him. He responded with a hug; a silent apology, quietly acknowledging her pain.

* * *

Regret plagued him. It disturbed him how much the puny emotion affected him, more so when he sat on top of John that evening, hoping the blonde would cure his displeasure. But he couldn't forget the way she had looked at him. Hurt. Longing.

To think that not long ago, he himself looked at John the same way.

Thankfully, John received his silent plea for help and tried to comfort him.

"Sherlock?" Voice worried, dripping with sweetness. He was so John. Caring. Devoted. Willing to do anything to make the person he loved happy.

Something Molly didn't have; something he would never be able to give her.

"Molly." He explained the situation, but he was sure John would know exactly what was wrong even if he hadn't.

John could help. He always knew how to make everything better.

"Well, the heart wants what the heart wants."

He looked at John expectantly.

He continued: "Neither you or Molly can change that. You love who you love. It's your choice whether you separate yourself from her or whether you try to be her friend. Either way, she gets hurt."

"But why do I feel bad?" Sherlock couldn't keep the desperate inflection out of his words.

John punctuated his words with peppered kisses, one on each cheekbone. A sad smile draped his lips.

"Because you're human."


	6. Look Down (Part 1)

**Look Down (Part 1)**

* * *

AN: Oh yes, here we go. I enjoyed this one more than I probably should have. I'm so effing kinky. Also, there will only be two more chapters after this one (for now, at least). Anything after the next two will be explicitly sex and sex-like activities between Sherlock and John, no other side characters.

* * *

"We're out of milk again. –SH"

"No we're not. –JW"

"? –SH"

"I brought it with me upstairs. –JW"

"Well can you bring it downstairs? –SH"

"No. Come and get it yourself. –JW"

Sherlock sighed, exasperated. Putting his phone down, he made a show of stomping as noisily as he could up the stairs and dramatically pouting his way over to John's room. Stopping at his doorway, he went to raise a precarious eyebrow with every intention to question John, but what he saw made his jaw drop.

John was lying on his bed with a plastic cup half full of milk snug between his naked thighs, a smug expression plastered on his face. He struggled not to laugh as Sherlock stared, flabbergasted.

"Joh- what is- what are you..?" Tongue tied, the dumbfounded detective, waved his arms and fumbled over his own fidgeting legs. His cheeks were flushed and his mouth opened and closed, but no coherent words came out.

"Well? You came up here to get some milk. What are you waiting for?" John smirked, relishing the sight of a speechless Sherlock.

It took him a moment to register what John had said, but once he realized what he wanted him to do, his eyes widened infinitely. At the moment, the white cup of liquid blocked his view of John's – well, you know – but if he were to retrieve said barricade…

Sherlock blushed even harder at the thought of John's – you know – _dick_. "John… are you drunk?"

Barley stifling a laugh, John shook his head, neck a bit flushed.

Regaining his composure, Sherlock squared his shoulders and cleared his throat. "Fine, then." Besides, sex doesn't alarm Sherlock Holmes, does it?

Stepping over to the bed, Sherlock shrugged off his shirt, purple fabric falling limply to the floor by the foot of John's bed. He crawled over John, knees on either side of his well-built legs, edging closer to his target. He tossed John a smirk, causing his breath to hitch audibly. Once he was close enough to reach the milk, he wrapped a hand around the glass, making sure to brush John's cock in the process.

Slowly, eyes not releasing John's imposing gaze, he brought the milk to his lips and took a small sip. Just as slowly, he reached across the bed to set down the cup in his hand, then leaned up towards John's lips, meeting them with his own. His hands found the blonde's chest and groped to their content as he kissed the ex-army doctor, tongue working against his lips. John immediately opened his mouth, admitting Sherlock's slick tongue. It snaked its way past his, easing Sherlock-flavored milk down his throat.

John gulped the milk willingly, eyes closing of their own volition. After swallowing the last of it, he broke away abruptly, gasping for air. "God, Sherlock," he groaned, wiping his bottom lip.

Moving his arms away from the other man's chest, Sherlock's fingers streaked through short blonde hair, earning him a husky moan. John leaned up into Sherlock, relishing the feel of his lush lips against his own. His hands clutched the brunette's back, pulling him closer. Adjusting his hips, Sherlock's groin skimmed his own and he gasped, head lolling back into the headboard.

Pulling away, Sherlock looked John straight in the eye, a cheeky smile splayed across his dimpled lips. Repositioning his hands on the mattress, he sunk lower on his legs, leaving a trail of scattered kisses down John's body as he did so. As he passed his nipples, he gave one a quick tweak, eliciting a moan out of the older man. When he reached his crotch, he glared up into John's eyes, his own half-lidded and coated in lust. Lips turned up, he darted his tongue out to circle the head of John's already hard cock.

"Ah! Sherlock!" John breathed, fists digging into the duvet beneath him as the detective engulfed his entire shaft in his mouth. It took all his willpower not to buck up into his mouth. Sherlock began to suck as he maneuvered his head back, then quickly bobbed it forwards again. John moaned, loud and shameless as Sherlock deepthroated him, all while keeping eye contact with him, that devilish smirk still pinching the corners of his lips.

Knowing he wouldn't last long, John tried to warn Sherlock, tugging lightly at his dark curls. He only sped up, tongue flicking across the head, fingers moving in squeezing pulses along the base of his shaft. Letting out a high pitched cry, John came into Sherlock's mouth, his back arching and eyes clenching themselves shut tight. Panting, John looked down into blue, piercing eyes that gazed lustily back into his.

He smiled up at him, pulling back and releasing John's member with a soft suckling noise. A dribble of white smeared his chin and his lips glistened with the blonde's seed. John shifted his upper body, about to reach over to his nightstand to get Sherlock some tissues, when said sociopath stopped his, holding his forearm in his pastel fingertips.

"Don't."

In response, John raised an inquiring eyebrow.

Sherlock licked his own lips slowly, whimpering almost silently as his eyes flickered closed, delicate lashes twinkling. He let go of the arm and brought his hand up to his chin, dragging his index finger along the streak of liquid, catching a glob of it on his calloused digit.

_"__This_ is the milk that I want." He purred, sliding his tongue out and lapping up John's semen.

Watching as he continued to devour his come, John found himself biting his lip involuntarily. This was just too much: Sherlock running his hands along his face and then licking them clean, trying to eat as much of it as he could. If he wasn't already spent, he would've come at just the sight of him.

That said, John couldn't wait for the next opportunity he would get to see his flatmate eating or drinking anything that was even remotely white or creamy.


	7. Look Down (Part 2)

**Look Down (Part 2)**

* * *

AN: I'm splitting this into two parts just to make it easier for myself. Bananas, anyone?

* * *

"Just got out of work. Want to get takeaway when I get home? –JW"

"Not really. –SH"

"Well we need to do something cuz I'm starving. –JW"

"I doubt you're honestly starving. –SH"

"You know what I mean. –JW"

The moment John got through the door, he ran to the fridge. Not that he expected to find anything edible in there, which he didn't, though he did pause to chuckle at the half full carton of milk on the door. He was so intent on the thought of food that he failed to notice his flatmate sitting casually in his chair, legs sprawled wide apart, a long yellow fruit tucked neatly into the front of his trousers. The stem of it peeked out from behind the slit in his boxers, parting the zipper to peer into the sitting room.

"Hello, John." He called over his shoulder into the kitchen.

No answer, just an irritated sigh.

"Aren't you going to turn around and say hello?"

Raising his arms and then plopping them down at his sides, John turned around and gave Sherlock a glare. "Hello. There, happy?"

Sherlock tilted his hips upwards ever so slightly as to draw attention to them, but John was too aggravated at the lack of food in the flat to care.

"Jooooohn!" Sherlock sing-songed with a teasing inflection, nearly begging to be noticed.

"What? What _is_ it, Sherlock?!" His palms cupped the air again, face contorted in rage.

"Look down."

As he did, his face changed in an instant. Sherlock couldn't help but smirk as the blonde saw the banana staring him down from its place buried in his crotch.

"Sherlock! Wha-"

"You said you were hungry. I figured I'd get you something to eat." His tone was nonchalant, but his expression was an epitome of amusement.

John smiled coyly, blushing behind his hands, and let out a hearty laugh.

"What's so funny?"

"I didn't know you could be so fucking sexy." John's laugh descended into a snicker, blush staying just as put on his face as his eyes were to Sherlock's groin.

"Since when do you have a fetish for bananas?"

"I assume we're just not going to mention your new-found fascination with milk."

"Your assumption is correct."

Still sniggering, John sashayed his way over to where Sherlock sat, soundless, undressing him with his eyes. Sherlock couldn't help but shutter, the doctor's gaze so powerful and lusty that he felt like he was being practically eye-fucked.

Poising himself at Sherlock's knees, he pushed the brunette's ebony trousers down as much as he could with him sitting and slid the banana out of his pants. Slowly, all while staring Sherlock straight in the eye, he pulled back the peel in four solid movements and took the fruit into his mouth. Sherlock watched as John broke off a bite, swallowing it hurriedly before going back for another, but not before he circled his tongue around the banana's circumference and grazed his teeth roughly down its sides.

All too hastily, John finished the entire banana, the last bite going down his throat in a single fluid motion. Looking up and licking his lips, he gathered up the ends of the peel and flipped them upside down, right on top of Sherlock's dick. He giggled softly as Sherlock gasped. Bringing his hands up, he flattened it over his prick, then began to move the remnants of the banana up and down Sherlock's shaft. He grinned as Sherlock's breathing raced, hands coming up to grip the arms of the chair, then one straying to his mouth, his knuckles meeting his teeth as he grunted loudly.

Still jerking him off with the peel, he brought Sherlock's balls into his mouth, suckling them gently. Knowing that Sherlock was close, clenching the arms of his chair whilst making the most uncharismatic yet sensual noises that John had ever heard, he prodded his anus, pressing into his hole just enough to make him squirm and make more of those delicious noises. Sure enough, that was enough to send him over the edge. When the detective came, he cried out, hips bucking up into the peel, semen seeping through the slits into John's hand.

Gazing down at the blonde in his post-bliss haze, Sherlock groaned as John licked what had spurted onto his hand off, devouring it in a few seconds. Looking up, John parted his lips, breathing a bit faster than usual. Gripping the chair on either side of where Sherlock sat, he hoisted himself up, then slipped the peel off his cock, the moan he elicited making him harder by the second. Tossing it to the side, he moved his hands to his flatmate's shoulders and nested himself down where the banana had just recently been.

"I'm still hungry, Sherlock." He growled, grinding his hips into the other man's, watching his head loll back and feeling his dick hardening again inside of him.

"I – ungh – see you've gotten yourself prepared already. This m-morning, perhap- oh, _God,_ JOHN!" Sherlock grunted as he bucked up into John's heat, seething.

John stared into Sherlock's eyes, moans streaming out his lips, between which he muttered, "Shut up, Sherlock," and proceeded to swallow his moans in a kiss.

Sherlock's lips moved against his, opening slightly to allow the blonde's tongue to slither in. He moaned; John tasted like banana and cum. He rutted his hips up into John vigorously, holding John by his hips as he squirmed in pleasure on his lap. Breaking the kiss, John gasped and writhed vehemently against Sherlock's cock as he brushed against his prostate roughly.

"There! Harder!" He whined, stabilizing himself on Sherlock's shoulders.

The detective thrust upwards, slamming into him. John met every one of his thrusts with just as much force. Squeezing his eyes shut, he wrapped his arms around John's wait and, holding him taught against his groin, twirled his hips. Eliciting the most beautiful noise he had ever heard, John's muscles clenched against Sherlock's dick as he came, arching his back and grabbing at the back of the chair. Opening his eyes, Sherlock looked at John's face, blonde hair tousled in just the right ways, his expression one of pure ecstasy. Sherlock screamed shrilly as he came for the second time that day, digging his nails into John's bum.

As they both came down from their post-orgasm euphoria, John pushed himself off of Sherlock and stumbled over to his own chair, trying to catch his breath. He watched as Sherlock panted, pale cheeks flushed, hair disheveled. He smiled to himself, wondering when he would get to see his flatmate like this again. He took a mental note of his expression and of the way that his hands fidgeted ever so slightly. He chuckled, knowing that the two of them wouldn't be eating out together anytime soon.


	8. Normal

**Normal**

* * *

AN: This takes place in episode 9 before Sherlock proposes to Janine. And the beginning is a little straight, sorry, but I promise it gets gayer. This is my first full sex scene in a while, so please review, I love you guys! xxx

* * *

_"Is this what normal couples do?"_

Sherlock grunted, eyebrows creasing as Janine's brown curls whipped past his face. She moaned something that resembled his name as she rocked her hips into his.

_"Is this what John does with... her?"_

He found his head being thrown back as she ground herself against him, thrusting particularly hard. His hands found purchase on her skin and he raked his nails down Janine's thighs, groaning in euphoria.

_"Does he like it?"_

A mental image of John's face, red and expressing ecstasy, flashed across his mind and he bucked up into Janine's heat, nearly coming from the thought alone. He panted breathily, unsure of which "J" name crept its way out his lips as he did so.

"Oh, Sherl!" Janine's eyes squeezed shut as she shuttered around his cock.

When she spoke, Sherlock heard not her feminine, wanton whine, but the sweet, loving vernacular of John, strong hands on his shoulders, torn apart from what Sherlock was doing to him, making him feel. Sherlock tasted blood as he bit his lip, chest pressed flat against Janine as he came violently under her.

* * *

He couldn't look John in the eye. There he was, sitting in their- no, his- sitting room, the man he had shared the best years of his life with, and he, Sherlock Holmes, couldn't even make eye contact with him.

The awkwardness was mutual. "So, you and Janine..." The doctor cleared his throat, not finishing his sentence.

"Yes." God, did his voice have to sound so pathetic? He crossed and uncrossed his lanky legs, daring to steal a glance at John.

"So-"

"How are things with you and Mary?" Fingertips pressed against each other under his chin, he ignored the red blotches on his cheeks that were no doubt expanding by the second and tried to regain his usual posture, tilting his head and looking directly at the man sitting across from him.

"Um, good."

"How was your Sex Holiday?"

Now it was John's turn to blush. "Sherlock, it's called a honeymoon."

"It's the same thing." He continued to pry. "Well?"

"It was fine." His casual sigh relaxed Sherlock, but only a little.

"Did you have lots of sex?"

"I-that's none of your business!" John stuttered.

_"God, I wish it was," _Sherlock thought, anxiety boiling in his stomach. He fidgeted in his armchair. "Fine."

"Why are you asking?" He adverted his hazy gray eyes, shifting uncomfortably.

"When people ask questions, it's usually because they want to know something."

John was taken aback, startled at how carefully Sherlock seemed to be choosing his words.

Tentatively, he prodded further. "Is there something you want to know?"

Sherlock couldn't hold back his exasperated sigh. "Yes," he mumbled, only half hoping he could be heard. Seeing that John was still waiting, he blurted, "I want to know everything you do with Mary!

John drowned in surprise. Shock delayed his reaction. "I- but, Sherlo- why?"

Neither one expected the response that Sherlock offered.

"Because I want to do those things with you."

John heard him loud and clear, despite his voice being hardly more than a mumble. Looking in his eyes, John saw lust, jealousy and something he never expected Sherlock would act upon: love.

He knew the man cared, in spite of his bitter, estranged façade, but he would have never guessed that his emotions were of (or anything close to) a romantic nature. He had always thought that the detective's feelings for him were purely platonic. Sherlock Holmes didn't do relationships; but then, that theory was already disproved.

Which begged the question: "Aren't you happy with Janine?" His curly haired head drooped and slowly rocked from side to side.

Of course he wasn't. He didn't love her. He loved John, the only one who could make him happy. The one he couldn't have.

Sherlock knew the answer to his next question would break his heart, but he had to ask. It was eating him up inside, because bloody hell, this was John he was talking about! "Do you love Mary?"

The blonde blinked and moistened his suddenly dry lips. "Yes." He tried not to focus on Sherlock's hurt expression. "But that doesn't mean that I don't love you."

Looking up, the detective's face was blank. "But you chose her."

"Only because you were dead."

He knew that. As much as he denied it in his head, night after night, wishing it wasn't true, he knew that if he had just told him, none of this would have happened. He knew it was his own fault that he felt this miserable and alone.

He never was good at sharing.

"I love you, John. I need you." Sherlock didn't care how desperate he sounded. This was John. He could afford to let his defenses down just this once.

Looking unsure of what to do, he responded, "I need you too." He simpered across the room.

"No, John." Sherlock squirmed, blush promptly returning. "I _need _you."

Sherlock watched as John's face morphed from an epiphany of confusion to a bewildered understanding, mouth forming an "o" as his jaw dropped. "But," he stammered, "You and Janine, I thought-"

He was silenced as Sherlock jumped up, elegantly taking two short strides over to where he sat frozen. Blue eyes overtaken by pupil, he leaned down and kissed him, cupping the blonde's cheeks in his palms. He pulled away quickly, already panting. "For once, don't think. Just feel."

"Okay."

This time, John met his lips halfway. He had less than a moment to take advantage of Sherlock's surprise before he kissed back with twice as much fervor. John couldn't help but moan into the kiss, working his tongue against Sherlock's, his hands entwining themselves in the brunette's curls. Sherlock grazed his bottom lip with his teeth and John shuttered in his arms. Shifting, John's knee found Sherlock's crotch and he gasped, breaking the kiss, a thin trail of saliva linking him to John.

"John," he moaned, lips parted.

Nodding, John grasped his hand, fingers laced with the other man's, and pulled him hurriedly up the stairs.

"Your room or mine?"

"Yours." Sherlock didn't have to think twice; he felt guilty doing things with John in the same room that he had shagged Janine in. And besides, John's room was closer. He didn't know if he could wait another second.

Barging through the door, the two tripped onto the bed, Sherlock situated sloppily under John. _"This is it," _he thought. _"It's finally, actually happening." _

He pulled down John's trousers roughly, bringing his pants down with them. John's hands were already tugging at Sherlock's shirt buttons. Before he knew what was happening, John's lips were lapping at his nipples while his hand was palming at his dick. He drew in a shallow breath, squirming with his eyes flickering closed.

"God, John." He breathed as the doctor used his other hand to fondle himself. He watched John's expression as he grabbed his own cock, moving his tight fist down his length in sharp, lusty strokes. Sherlock felt himself jerk against John's hand pulsing low on his body. Having John get off on getting him off had to be the hottest thing Sherlock had ever seen.

Hastily pulling the rest of their clothes off, Sherlock swatted John's hand away from his dick and took it himself. John gasped and brought his hand up to his mouth as Sherlock swiped his thumb over the head and then slicked his palm down the shaft.

"Sh-Sherlock!" John's yelp was followed by a shift, both his hands now holding him up on Sherlock's chest. In this position, John was straddling Sherlock, so whenever Sherlock pumped at a certain angle, their pricks touched, twitching against the other.

After a particularly rough thrust, John grabbed the detective's wrist. At first, he was confused, but when he looked up at his face, Sherlock saw how hard he was panting and realized that he wouldn't last much longer. He needed this just as much as Sherlock did.

Shifting to rest on his shoulders, Sherlock slipped his fingers into John's mouth and motioned for him to suck. John moved his tongue between his lean digits and suckled, trying to get them as wet as possible. He could feel his breath on his knuckles as he reached up and pulled Sherlock's fingers out of his open mouth, a trickle of spit dripping onto his stomach.

Gesturing for the shorter man to lean back, he tilted his hips up and delved his index finger into his arse, bucking into his own hand for a moment before adding another finger. Opening his eyes, he stared at John as he let out a puff of air he hadn't realized he was holding in. The blonde looked like he was trying not to come right then and there, fists clenched as he watched Sherlock prepare himself in front of him, fingers stretching his pink hole.

Sherlock whined as he pulled out and shimmied towards him. "Please, John," he sighed as he wriggled his bum against John's dick, making him wince. "Need you, now!"

Lending a curt nod towards his detective, he gently led his stiffened penis into him, pausing every few seconds. Each time Sherlock's breath hitched, he halted, only for Sherlock to clench down on him and grunt in disappointment until he moved again. Finally, he was in all the way as he rocked his hips into him, their pricks grinding in the tight space between their bodies.

"Sherlo- so tigh- hng!" John squealed as Sherlock bucked up into him, gasping.

"John- move!" he mewled, writhing, hands twisted in the bedsheets.

He didn't need to be told twice. Immediately, he pulled back and quickly rutted into Sherlock, moaning in unison with him. Sherlock let out a particularly loud groan as John fucked him harder, picking up speed with each thrust. John chorused the detective's name over and over, getting louder as he drove into him. Gasping, the brunette met each of his ministrations, his own movements sloppy and needy. Both men were thoroughly coated in sweat as they rocked against each other on the bed.

Sherlock cried out; John had found that one spot inside of him. "John! There, harder!" He screamed as John rammed into his prostate again and again. "Joh- I'm going to-"

The blonde cut him off with a shout of his own as they came together, riding out their orgasms. John's forehead pressed against Sherlock's slick, lanky shoulder as he spilled himself unceremoniously all over his stomach.

When John pulled out, he rolled over onto his back next to Sherlock, syncing with his raggedy breathing. A moment was spent gulping at the sweaty air before John caught Sherlock looking at him, head turned and face flushed.

"John." He breathed, breaking the silence with his faint moan.

Instead of answering, John merely stared back at him, his intakes becoming more steady by the minute, head clearing as he got more oxygen to his brain. He started to realize what he had just done and ran a hand through his hair.

Noticing everything from John's expression change, Sherlock closed his eyes and stared at the ceiling, sighing. Of course John regretted it already; he had Mary.

"Sherlock?"

He looked out the corner of his eye at John's now worried face. He didn't see any point of hiding behind his estranged mask. "You should go. Don't want to ruin your marriage."

Sitting up, John sighed. "Stop it. You don't have-" He paused, debating what word he should use. "You don't have competition with Mary." He turned Sherlock's face towards him, leaning down to place a chaste kiss on either cheekbone before continuing. "I will never leave you. Ever."

Consoled to some extent, he smiled sadly. "But you still chose her."

John returned the glum pout. "I can't undo the past, and neither can you. I can't just stop loving her for you." He petted Sherlock's hair, watching as he closed his eyes and craned his head into the light touch. "But I need you too. And..." he hesitated, choosing his words carefully as not to hurt his detective's feelings. "And Mary knows how much I care for the both of you. I don't care what she says to this new... arrangement. I love you too, damn it, and I don't ever want you to think differently."

Sherlock licked his lips, emotions bare before John. "So... is this our new normal?"

Smiling, John laughed softly. "Sherlock, neither of us were ever normal." Still smiling, he sat on top of Sherlock again, kissing him passionately, ravaging his mouth until they both fell asleep on John's bed, one on top of the other, smiling as they lay forever entangled.


	9. Rows and Bows

**Rows and Bows**

* * *

AN: First, I want to thank all of you who favorited/followed/reviewed these stories, I'm glad someone is reading and enjoying these and I'm really grateful. Secondly, this will be the last entry for this group of ficlets, so thanks for those of you who stuck with with me through these last 8 fics. Lastly, trigger warnings for cocaine. I'm not always one for happy endings.

* * *

The tears tugged at his eyes, but he wouldn't let them fall. Nobody was there to see his cold, hardened eyes as his chalky fingers prodded at the frets, choppily playing several bars over and over, adding a bit more each time. He sniffled, half from holding back his overwhelming emotions, half from the tinge of powder dusting his nostrils.

Abruptly, he sat down, violin bumping the ground, leaving a small dent in the smooth, polished wood. Hastily, he scrawled down the last notes between the black and white lines. Quickly, he folded up the sheet, then stared at the names he had labeled on the back. _John and Mary. _He couldn't hold back. He let the streaks of salt water stream down his chiseled cheeks. No sound came out of his open mouth. His red eyes were empty.

The paper dropped to the table. For a moment, his long fingers rubbed at his eyes. He leaned back in his seat. He didn't move for thirty minutes. His mind was blank but racing at the same time. He hurt so much. The pain was unbearable. No matter how numb his body was, he could still feel the pain of his heart breaking.

His eyes found the table, where the white powder was. He leaned forward. Back craned, the lines flew up his nose. He snorted, then breathed heavily for a minute. It still hurt. He went down again. Another line. The pain remained stubborn. He inhaled more and more chemicals. Before long, all of it was gone.

Slowly, he fumbled around for his violin, and with his bow poised crookedly, long, mournful sounds fluttered off his fingertips. He played, frets dusty with residue on his fingers. He couldn't be bothered to wipe it off. He didn't care. He played the waltz. John's waltz. Mary's waltz. The waltz he would play when he was dying inside but had to smile anyways, for John. The melody was depressed. It cried out for help, beautiful even as it was in agony. If he couldn't express himself in words, he could at least do it in song.

His fingers danced, quickly at first, then gradually slowing. His breathing followed. Eventually they both stopped. His bow clattered to the floor.

There was nobody to hear his mutter his last word: "_John."_

* * *

When John came home, he saw Sherlock laying on the sitting room floor. He shook him. He screamed for him to wake up. He pounded on his chest. He cried out to the skies.

Sherlock did not respond. He just laid there, tear stains dried on his cold, dead skin.

John hugged him tight and cried. He looked around from his place on the floor in desperation. His eyes caught the grainy residue of white on the table, and shortly after he saw the paper. Still clutching Sherlock, he reached up and took it gently between his fingers. Held his last composition, written specially for John. Written in his last, dying breaths.

The edges of the paper crumpled where his hands gripped it like they would never let go. Burying his face in the music, he cried.

* * *

John's grip on that paper never faltered.

He held it as Lestrade comforted him. He held it as the people in blue clothes took Sherlock's body away. He held it as he hugged a crying Molly Hooper. He held it as Sherlock was lowered into his grave. He still held it as he raided the bathroom cabinet for all the drugs he could find, and when he washed all those pills down his throat with a tall glass of water, he held it then as well.

The only time he dropped it was when he fell dead on the bathroom tiles.


End file.
